The Last Dark

  Then he turned to the other horses, a palomino stallion and a black. “And here are Rallyn and Hooryl. They have come to bear the Humbled on a quest which will require much of them, and of their riders. That they do so fearfully is no fault in them. They are Ranyhyn. Fear will not hinder their service.”

  Briefly Covenant looked at Clyme and Branl. The sight of them made him wince. His senses were too blunt to discern anything except rigid indignation.

  But Brinn ignored the Masters. Facing Covenant again, he said as if he were bidding farewell, “Now, Unbeliever, Illender, Prover of Life, you must speak the name. Only its name will summon the steed and obtain its compliance.”

  The stars were too close. Covenant had never seen them look so near. Yet their proximity only accentuated the voids between them, the immeasurable gulfs of their isolation. Vaguely he wondered whether the Elohim felt the same loneliness. Perhaps that explained their prideful self-absorption, their insistence that they were complete in themselves, equal to all things. Perhaps their surquedry was nothing more than compensation for prolonged sterility and sorrow.

  But then the lamentation overhead and Brinn’s kindness compelled him. Swallowing the taste of blood and woe, he did as the Guardian of the dying One Tree asked or commanded.

  “Mishio Massima.”

  Brinn’s smile was a confluence of hope and regret as he stepped past the krill to touch Covenant’s blamed forehead lightly with one finger.

  At the same time, he urged quietly, “Recall that the krill is capable of much. With use, it has become more than it was.”

  His touch seemed to light a star in Covenant’s brain. Suddenly the dusk in all direction became a swirl of lights: the same swirl which had filled the Isle’s cavern long ago when Covenant had tried to claim a branch of the One Tree. If Linden had not stopped him then, he might have brought about the world’s end without realizing what he did.

  He needed to make things right with her. He needed to tell her that he loved her—and that he had killed Joan.

  Brinn had spoken of a service—a boon—but he had not revealed what it might be.

  Then the stars took Covenant, and he went to sleep as if he were falling into the heavens.

  4.

  “Try to Believe”

  Soreness and jostling finally roused Covenant. He had no idea where he was; but for a while, he did not care. If the flexing sensations of movement had not insisted on his attention, he would have tried to go back to sleep.

  His whole body ached as though he had suffered a beating. A dull throb in his forehead matched the rhythm that carried him. But when he braced himself to draw a deeper breath, he found that the piercing hurt of broken ribs was gone. Bruises like groans had replaced the effects of sharp rocks and rending coral. His weakness felt more like convalescence than blood-loss.

  A week, he thought to the cadence of hooves, the flow of stubborn muscles. Just let me rest for a week. Then I’ll open my eyes. I promise.

  He did not have a week. He doubted that he could afford hours.

  Vaguely he deduced that he was mounted. But not bareback: not on a Ranyhyn. The saddle under him reminded him of the Harrow’s fallen destrier. And he was not held upright. No, he was sprawled resting along a long neck. The saddle horn dug into his abdomen. His legs dangled free of stirrups. The jolts were the beat of a hard canter.

  He remembered Mishio Massima, the Ardent’s mangy, shovel-headed horse. Clyme and Branl must have boosted him onto the steed while he slept. And they must have secured his arms—perhaps with the reins—so that he would not fall.

  Mishio Massima’s jarring gait punished his recent wounds. Nonetheless he was grateful. At Brinn’s insistence, no doubt, the Humbled had honored Covenant’s promise to the Ranyhyn.

  For a time, he was content to rest as he was in spite of the prod of the saddle horn. The mystery of Brinn’s aid remained with him; the miracle of Brinn’s friendship. Covenant was less alone in the world than he had believed himself to be. Less alone than he felt with the rigid companionship of the Humbled. The dying Guardian of the One Tree had given him a profound gift—

  But it was not an unalloyed blessing. True, Brinn had mended the worst of his injuries. But the Guardian had also given him a task which he feared to contemplate.

  Remembering turiya Raver, Covenant flinched. He needed to open his eyes. Hell, he needed to sit up. He had to know where he was. And where the Humbled were taking him. And how they had resolved their contention with their ak-Haru—if they had resolved it at all. And what the service or boon that Brinn had mentioned might be.

  The possibility that turiya Herem might take possession of the lurker of the Sarangrave frightened Covenant as much as the idea that he might never see Linden again.

  With an effort, he lifted his head; lowered it again. Blinking, he tried to clear his sight. Then he made an attempt to free his arms.

  “A moment, ur-Lord,” Clyme said over the steady rumble of hooves. “We will unbind you.”

  Now Covenant realized that the hoof-beats of the horses were muffled. The ground where they ran was too yielding to be stone; too soft for bare dirt.

  Peering sideways through the gloom, he saw a shape veer toward him: a horse and rider. When Hooryl came near enough to brush his leg, Clyme bent down to undo the reins.

  Briefly Covenant fought the blur that marred his vision. It seemed worse than it should have been. He could still see stars overhead, but his companion’s features were a twilit smear. He had to squint in order to discern that the horses were cantering on thick turf.

  Hell and blood. He should have been able to see better than this. Brinn had healed him, and leprosy did not progress so swiftly.

  Unless—

  Stung by an intuitive apprehension, he pulled his awkward arms under him; pushed himself off his mount’s neck. Then he clutched at the saddle horn to keep his balance.

  He could not feel the horn at all, except with the nerves of his elbows and shoulders. His hands were numb.

  “What—?” he panted. He seemed to need all of his strength to keep his seat. Insensate in their boots, his feet floundered for the stirrups and did not find them. “What’s going on?” His voice was as vague as his vision. He had slept too long. “What’s happening to me? My eyes are going.”

  Around him, the aegis of the gloaming was complete. It ruled everything. It was leaking into his head; into his mind. Only the stars as they died were vivid to him.

  Clyme draped the untied reins over Covenant’s forearms. Hooryl moved away from Mishio Massima, perhaps so that Covenant could move his leg freely while he groped for the stirrup.

  “Kevin’s Dirt has overtaken us.” Clyme sounded angry. No, it was more than that. He sounded like a man who had given up pretending that he was not angry. “It came upon us at midday. Clearly Kastenessen now directs his malice over the Lower Land, doubtless seeking to harm you, and also to hinder the Staff of Law. In this, he succeeds. To our sight, it is plain that Kevin’s Dirt deepens your illness.”

  Covenant had guessed as much. But he had not expected the effects of Kastenessen’s brume to be so swift. Came upon us at midday? How much time had he lost?

  He turned his head to confirm that Branl also rode beside him. The motion and his mount’s strides made his head pound and his ribs throb. But those pains were more bearable than his earlier hurts; somehow more human. He could imagine that they would fade.

  Branl’s visage wore a frown like a knot between his brows. It looked permanent, as if it had always been there; as if it had merely been masked by a learned and unnatural impassivity.

  Slowly the vagueness faded from Covenant’s thoughts. After a moment, he was able to ask Branl, “Where are we?”

  “Ur-Lord,” the Humbled answered, “the Ranyhyn are cunning. They eluded the snares of the skest and escaped the maze of the Shattered Hills well before the onset of Kevin’s Dirt. Now we return along the path of our approach to Kurash Qwellinir. The cliff above the Sunbirth Sea lies
there.” He gestured eastward. “If your mount is able to sustain its pace, we will soon gain the region where we last found aliantha.”

  Covenant sighed his relief. This was not the most direct route to the Sarangrave, but it was the shortest path to food. If Branl and Clyme had over-ruled their ak-Haru’s counsel—if they had decided to seek Linden and the Giants instead of pursuing turiya—they would have headed northwest from the Shattered Hills.

  Covenant looked around at the caliginous vista of the grass, the slope rising incrementally toward the east, the greying of the world. When he was ready, he announced, “I want to stop for a while. I ache everywhere. I need to walk around some. I’m sure this nag”—he indicated Mishio Massima with his chin—“can use a break.” In fact, the Ardent’s beast seemed preternaturally hardy. Unlike the Harrow’s charger, apparently, this horse had been bred for endurance. “If nothing else, it probably wants grass. And we should talk.”

  He felt sure that the Humbled had much to tell him—if they chose to do so.

  Clyme and Branl consented promptly: a bad sign. Had they trusted Brinn’s advice, they would have argued that Covenant required haste. But they slowed their mounts without a word. Mishio Massima eased to a bone-rattling trot, then jerked to a walk like a thing formed of tree-limbs rather than flesh and bone.

  Before the beast halted, Covenant slid out of the saddle. At first, his legs refused to hold him, and he dropped to his knees. Fortunately the turf cushioned the impact. Then he forced himself to his feet. Stifling a groan, he began to stamp in a circle, trying vainly to drive some sensation back into his ankles and feet. Their numbness affected him like imminent vertigo: he needed to rediscover balance. As he moved, he twisted his trunk from side to side, testing the condition of his ribs. Briefly he rolled his head and swung his arms. When he had assured himself that he was substantially intact, he took a few deep breaths and braced himself to confront the Humbled.

  They had dismounted. Now they stood facing him, Branl with his clenched frown, Clyme with his hands curled into fists. But the mounts were moving away, trotting westward. Covenant guessed that they had caught the scent of water.

  Alone with his companions, he rubbed at the crusted blood around his eyes; probed the new scar on his forehead with the nub-ends of his fingers. His fingers felt nothing, but the tenderness of the cut assured him that it needed more time to heal.

  The Humbled had not endured their ak-Haru’s reproach gently: that was obvious. Groping for a tone of respect, Covenant said, “I’m not sure, of course. I was asleep. But I get the impression there are things you should tell me. Something happened while I was out—and I’m not talking about Kevin’s Dirt. Did Brinn say anything else? Did he—?”

  Clyme interrupted him curtly. “He did not. We were not heeded. No further speech was exchanged.”

  Covenant stared. “Are you sure? He said something about a boon. A service. He didn’t tell you what it was?”

  Brinn was Haruchai: he could have spoken to the Humbled mind to mind more fluently and thoroughly than aloud.

  “He did not,” Clyme repeated, rigid as metal. “He refused our mental communion, as only Stave has done heretofore. In his thoughts we found only silence.”

  Frowning like Branl, Covenant wavered on his feet. Keeping his balance was as difficult as he had feared. Too much had happened. He needed the feedback of nerves which no longer communicated with the rest of his body.

  To that extent, at least, he knew how the Humbled felt. The Guardian had undermined their foundations.

  “What does that mean to you?” he asked carefully. “Has he given up on us?”

  After a moment, Clyme appeared to relent. His shoulders released some of their tension. Less stiffly, he replied, “When the ak-Haru had extended his strength for your healing, he was much reduced. Indeed, he resembled a man drawing the last breaths of extreme age. We deem that he did not speak again of a boon because he had come to the end of himself. He could not do more.”

  Ah, hell, Covenant sighed. He hated to think that Brinn had simply passed away. After so much time and devotion—He wanted to believe that his former companion would find some form of resolution or contentment; but Clyme gave him scant reason for hope.

  However, he could not afford to dwell on grief. Other issues were more compulsory.

  “Then tell me what’s changed for you.” He strained his eyes to study the faces of the Humbled. When neither of them spoke, he made an attempt to sound gentle. “Was being criticized by your ak-Haru that bad?”

  Both men stiffened. Their anger made them vivid in the gloom. Branl’s glower looked fierce enough to split his skull. Clyme knocked the knuckles of his fists together as if he were stifling an impulse to hit someone.

  Like the cut of a blade, Clyme stated, “His words were hurtful to no purpose. He did not reproach what we have done. His reproach was that we are who we are. Is the wind to be faulted because it blows? Are the stones to be accused because they are not trees? We are Haruchai. We cannot be other than ourselves.”

  “Mayhap it was his right to speak as he did,” Branl conceded. He was not less indignant than Clyme: he had merely assumed their shared burden of truthfulness. “He is the ak-Haru, Guardian of the One Tree. No other Haruchai has equaled his attainments.”

  “Nevertheless,” Clyme snapped. “We care naught for his right to speak. Our true grievance, ur-Lord, is that he sought to counsel you, and his counsel was false.”

  He spat that word as if it were a curse.

  “False?” Covenant nearly choked. “Hellfire! How do you get to a conclusion like that? You said it yourself. He’s the ak-Haru, for God’s sake! How can you even think a word like ‘false,’ never mind say it out loud?”

  Now Clyme did not relent. His tone held an outrage so deep that it seemed to arise from the marrow of his bones.

  “We do not charge him with malign intent, but rather with mistaken comprehension. As he has misesteemed us, so he has misjudged the Land’s peril.

  “The lurker’s plight is of no consequence. That monstrous wight is an avatar of Corruption. A Raver’s possession cannot increase its misbegotten appetites. It requires no urging to seek our ruin.

  “Recall,” he insisted as though Covenant had tried to interrupt him, “that the Soulsease has found new depths among the roots of Gravin Threndor. The Defiles Course will not resume its accustomed flow until the immeasurable abyss of the Lost Deep has been filled. Thus the poisons which supply the lurker’s most necessary sustenance have been much reduced. Already its hungers swell. They must. Having grown so vast, they must be vastly fed. Such a creature will not long remember that it fears your magicks, or Linden Avery’s. Your alliance was a thing of the moment. It cannot endure.

  “To abandon all other needs in the lurker’s name is madness.”

  Madness? Covenant wanted to protest. Is that what you think of Brinn? Is that what you think of me? But the Humbled were not done.

  “That is reason enough to set aside the ak-Haru’s counsel,” put in Branl. “Yet there are other reasons as well.

  “Has not the Ardent cited the ravages of the skurj and the Sandgorgons in concert? Has not Kevin’s Dirt been sent to weaken us? And is not Kastenessen the source of both evils? There lies your true path, ur-Lord. You must join with Linden Avery to challenge the mad Elohim’s malevolence. That task is paramount. An end to Kevin’s Dirt must be accomplished.

  “Doubtless Kastenessen is both spurred and guided by moksha Jehannum. Certainly the Sandgorgons heed the Raver, seduced as they are by the remnants of samadhi Sheol’s spirit. Yet the power is Kastenessen’s. There can be no true defense of the Land while he stands in opposition.”

  Facing his companions, Covenant floundered. Anger he had expected. They were Haruchai, Masters and Humbled; proud. Naturally they had taken umbrage at Brinn’s judgments. But he had not expected them to express their indignation like this.

  Shaken and dismayed, he felt a reflexive desire to argue. He could h
ave pointed out that Kastenessen was almost certainly positioned somewhere among the secrets of Mount Thunder, and that the distance was insurmountable. No doubt Linden was closer; but finding her would not take Covenant nearer to Kastenessen.

  While he tried to assemble the necessary words, however, he realized that the distance was effectively irrelevant. Turiya’s head start was already insurmountable. Under the circumstances, one impossible distance was much like another.

  In any case, no rational argument would sway the Humbled. They were too angry. Behind their masks, their attitude was based on a passion that Covenant did not understand.

  Something had stung a primal nerve in them: primal and intimate. They had been hurt in a place at once carefully hidden and exquisitely raw. The pain of that singular wound drove them to extremes of emotion which Covenant had not witnessed before in any Haruchai.

  Unsure of himself, he tried to be cautious. “The Feroce saved us.” Still he winced at his own bleakness, his tone of confrontation. In his way, he was as irate as the Humbled. “Horrim Carabal held up his end. He didn’t have to. He could have left us to the skest. After all, he hates wild magic. He hates the krill. But he kept his word anyway. We wouldn’t be here talking about it if he hadn’t honored his agreement. Maybe you can ignore that. I can’t.

  “First you wanted me to break my promise to the Ranyhyn. Now you want me to turn my back on an alliance. That doesn’t sound like you. It doesn’t sound like any Haruchai I’ve ever met.” He had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting. “What’s happened to you?”

  Dark as incarnations of wrath, Clyme and Branl glared at Covenant. For a long moment, they did not reply. They did not move. Perhaps deliberately, they gave him a chance to fear that they would turn away from him. The Masters had spurned Stave—

  But then, suddenly, Branl snatched the bundle of Loric’s krill from inside his tunic. With a flick of his wrists, he spun the blade free of Anele’s tattered heritage. As the gem’s argence blazed out, he stabbed the dagger into the grass.